


Audit, Review, and Track

by Ewebie



Series: Stilettos and Subterfuge [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is my personal hero, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, People did ask for this... just... probably about 2 years ago?, This was sitting in my drafts folder for AGES!, Tumblr Prompt, Whatever... I keep receipts, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-10 01:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 10,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12900960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: “Sir, we need to find a replacement for Morris.”Mycroft frowned. “Morris?”“On audit, review, and track.”“I thought we had replaced him last week with…”“We did, sir. With Morris.”This is based on a tumblr prompt from 'back in the day.' It was sitting in my drafts folder for far too long. I got side-tracked. Wrote this. Now... I give this to you. Plan is for daily updates until done. I could have just posted it all in one go, but someone (who will remain nameless *cough* an excess of everything *cough*) suggested I do it in small dribs and drabs to torture... or... wait... no... to draw out the suspense? Yeah, that sounds better. Anyway. Have this present. As always: #sorry not sorry :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashlee1989](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashlee1989/gifts).



> I will post the original tumblr prompt at the very end... Though I suspect some of you will cop on before we get there.

_I can’t take it. I’m done. No more ART. This is not what I trained for._

_Understood. We will modify the rotation to reflect this._

_No one could possibly do this for more than 5 days._

_On the contrary. You can return to the file room on Thursday._

_Thank God._


	2. Chapter 2

“Sir, we need to find a replacement for Morris.”

Mycroft frowned. “Morris?”

“On audit, review, and track.”

“I thought we had replaced him last week with…”

“We did, sir. With Morris.”

“Oh.” He frowned again. “Would Jacobs-“

“Already spent a month there, sir. He has requested any post-“

“Then put him on oversee,” Mycroft said sharply, shuffling the last of his papers into his folio. “And have Hyman-“

“Sir,” Anthea sighed. “Hyman, Jacobs, Morris, Ericsson, Daly, Phillips, and Cavendish have all spent time on ART and all of them have requested alternate posts.”

Mycroft raised a brow, “Why?”

Anthea lowered her mobile and cocked a brow in return. “I believe the phrase ‘mind-numbingly boring’ has been bandied about.”

“The car?”

“Is here, Sir.”

“Handle this. I’ll be back in a week.”

“Permission to train a new intern?”

“Denied,” Mycroft slipped on a coat and gave her a long look.

“Ah yes, budget restrictions.”

“Quite.”

“I will make arrangements.”

“Very good.”


	3. Chapter 3

John heard the commotion from the moment he closed the door. The rant continued as he made his way up the stairs, and by the time he was hanging his coat, Sherlock had ended his call, hurled his phone into the corner of his chair, and balled up on the couch in a massive sulk. John sighed. “Evening. Good day, was it?”

Sherlock craned his neck to glare at him. “Mycroft is being patronizing, my mold spores won’t germinate, Lestrade won’t give me a case, the masses are as dull as ever, Mrs. Hudson won’t make me biscuits, and I am Bored.”

“Mrs. Hudson won’t…” John shook his head. “She’s not obligated to placate you with baked goods.”

“Then what is the point of her?”

“Sherlock…” John hung his head for a moment then straightened, gave a nod and tried again. “Right. Tea?”

“Tea?”

“Yes, tea first, I think. I’ll order us a take away. We can have tea, then some Thai? Thai, I think. And we can watch something on TV.”

Sherlock rolled towards John as his face scrunched. “Is that your answer to everything?”

“Placating you? Apparently.”

“What would we watch?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know, anything? Something mindless.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Everything is mindless.”

John flashed him a grin. “Of course it is. Tell you what. I’ll make the tea, you try to predict which channel has a Bond film on tonight.”

“None of them do,” Sherlock grumbled.

“I don’t believe that,” John headed for the kitchen, flicking the kettle on and checking the mugs carefully for whatever failed experiment they’d last been used in. “Sherlock, which ones are safe?”

“I checked earlier today,” Sherlock called from his spot on the couch. “No Bond. None.”

John gave the cleanest looking ones a quick scrub and rinse for good measure. “I’m pretty sure that’s never happened in the history of broadcast television. Look harder or I’m signing us up for Netflix.” Sherlock’s loud sound of disgust was audible over the kettle boiling, and John bit back a laugh. “Just think, I could stream _Have I Got News For You_ non-stop, on demand.”

It was a near thing, but John didn’t jump as Sherlock’s response came from a breath away from his left ear. “And rot your brain further than already blighted by the useless information you store in it?”

John tried not to shudder as Sherlock reached over his shoulder, brushing his arm across John’s, and plucking the tea from the counter. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what, John?” Sherlock’s lips twitched before he took a sip and strode back to the couch.

John sighed again and shook his head. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.”

“Why on Earth would I want to do that?” Sherlock laughed.

“Because you’re absolutely infuriating,” John muttered. Then he pulled out his mobile, called out for food, and took his tea upstairs to change out of his work-sullied clothes.

Thirty minutes later, he nudged Sherlock’s feet off the end of the couch and sat down with two plates full of food. “Oi, did you find me some Bond?”

Sherlock glanced at the food in front of him, “Told you, checked the broadcast schedules. None on.” John scooped the remote from the table and clicked the TV on anyway.

_Of course it will; put your back into it._

John turned to Sherlock with a smirk and raised a brow. “Will you look at that?”

_Why don’t you come down here and put your back into it?_

“Right on BBCTwo.”

Sherlock frowned and sat up. “That’s not right.”

“It is,” John grinned and took a large bite of his food. “And it’s one of my favorites.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That’s just because he looks like you.”

He didn’t exactly choke on the noodles, but it was a near thing, and he desperately cleared his throat and took a large swig from his beer. “That’s…” He scoffed and waved a hand at the screen. “Connery is my favorite Bond. You know that.”

“Do I?” Sherlock blinked innocently and turned his attention to the food. “That doesn’t sound like something I would waste my time knowing.”

“You really think I look like Daniel Craig?”

Sherlock poked his noodles with a chopstick. “Who?”

“Git,” John muttered. “Though, I figured you’d fancy this one, given Q is a bit more like you than before.”

Sherlock frowned at the screen as one of the tube cars crashed into the space Bond had been occupying. “I don’t look anything like him. And this is absurd.”

“You do. And that’s the whole point.”

“Absurdity is the point?”

“Well… Yeah. Kind of. I think.”

“I suppose in this version, Mycroft gets shot.”

“I… what?” John’s gaze flicked between Sherlock and the film for a moment. “Oh, you mean Mallory?”

Sherlock gave a nod. “Mallory, Mycroft; pompous gits that think they run everything and hate legwork. All the same.”

John snickered. “I suppose you’re right.

“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

“Of course you are.”


	4. Chapter 4

_I heard you drew the short straw until Bruchmann is back from leave. And ta for the transfer._

_There is far more entertainment here than any of you thought to find._

_You’ll be joining us on oversee before the boss is back._

_On the contrary. This job will become unnecessary before the boss is back._

_Wager?_

_Standard terms._

_Deal._


	5. Chapter 5

“Oh God, just get out of my car before I have to arrest you both.”

John was still giggling so hard that he practically fell out of Lestrade’s car onto the pavement. Sherlock was slightly more coordinated as he continued to laugh at John’s antics and exited the car, making his way to John’s side.

Lestrade frowned at them as they stumbled up the steps and into Baker Street. “Stupid, sodding pillocks.” The both of them. He patted his pockets, looking for a cigarette before he could stop himself. He didn’t carry them anymore. But his front pocket was still surprisingly empty. “Goddammit!” He pulled out his mobile and punched the buttons angrily, growing even more cross as the ringing gave way to voicemail. “Sherlock Holmes, you absolute TOSSER! If you rob my warrant card one more time, I will handcuff you naked to the front doors of Scotland Yard!” There. Good. He glanced out the window, up at the flat as the lights came on. He twiddled the mobile in his hand for a moment before making another call.

“You’ve reached the office of Mycroft Holmes.”

“Oh. Uh… Hey. Not in, is he.”

“I’m sorry, Detective Inspector, he is currently unavoidably unavailable.”

“Ah, right. Ok.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Sir?”

“No. Thanks, Anthea. I was just… Sherlock and John are back home. And they’re… in a good mood. And they stole my warrant card again.”

“I assure you, they are being well monitored and will not cause you any further stress this evening.”

“Ah, thanks. That’s… That’s actually really reassuring.”

“Not a problem.”

“Do I want to know how you know that?”

“Not at all. Shall I have him call you when he becomes available again?”

“Uh. Yeah. Sure. If he can spare the moment.”

“I will pass on the message, Detective Inspector.”

“Thanks. Thanks, Anthea. I appreciate it.”

“It’s my job.”

“Yeah. Right. Ok. Thanks.”


	6. Chapter 6

John collapsed on the couch, still chuckling. “Sherlock, you can’t… You can’t keep doing that!”

“Arguably, I can.” He dropped the warrant card in the middle of the table and flopped onto the couch next to John.

“One of these days, he’ll make good on his threats.”

“Oh please. Lestrade would never ‘Send the footage of you hanging off that tree branch to the Daily Mail.’” Sherlock grinned as he set John off giggling again. “I’ll give it back tomorrow.”

John caught a breath and shot him a skeptical look. “You’re going to give it back?”

“Obviously I will, John.” Sherlock tried to look offended. He managed the expression for a few seconds. “Of course, I’m not going to tell him.”

They both broke down laughing.

Finally, John sighed and collected himself. “It’s a good thing Greg is so sound. I think the number of ASBOs I’d have to my name otherwise…”

“Who?” Sherlock asked insincerely.

John huffed out a laugh and swatted his thigh. “Git.”

“I’m starved. Do we have anything to eat in?”

John furrowed his brow. “The Great Sherlock Holmes is hungry? Notify the press!”

Sherlock scowled. “I’m not sure if you noticed, your observational skills being as subpar as they are, but I did just run three kilometers across gravel and tracks after thirty-two hours awake. Needing food is nothing to write home about.”

“You admitting it is nothing short of a miracle,” John grinned, pushing up off the couch. “And I doubt there’s anything edible in the fridge.” He stretched for a moment, scratched the back of his head, and shrugged. “Find something for us to watch? I’ll sort some food.”

Sherlock caught the remote as John tossed it his direction. “Not Mexican.”

John snorted as he headed for the kitchen. “Right. Fine.”

“Those were not actual tacos and you were ill for three days.”

“I said fine!” John called as he thumbed through their pile of menus. “How about pizza?”

“No corn.”

“Corn? Seriously, Sherlock.”

“Or pineapple. That was an abomination.”

“Some people like pineapple.”

“They’re an abomination.”

“They’re not!” John laughed. “How are we feeling about pepperoni?”

Sherlock made a vague noise of assent. “Tolerable.”

“Peppers?”

“Are you trying to make me eat vegetables again?”

“Sherlock,” he grumbled.

“Fine. Peppers are fine.”

“Good.” John finished ordering. “I think I’ll go change. I think I might smell like…” He paused. “Train tracks? Is that a smell?”

“It’s the rust and friction from the metal tracks mixed with the surrounding foliage,” Sherlock murmured.

“I… Right. I smell like that and I’m two-days stale.”

“You smell fine,” Sherlock muttered.

John scoffed. “You take big whiffs of decaying bodies, forgive me for not taking you at your word.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Suit yourself.”

“Ta.” John headed up to his room to change into a fresh pair of jeans and clean shirt. By the time he’d cracked a beer, the pizza had arrived, and he settled on the sofa next to Sherlock. “What did you find for us to watch today?”

Sherlock hummed. “BBC documentary on neurochemistry, I think.”

“You think?”

“That’s what they’re talking about.”

“Ok. Fair enough.” John shifted to find a comfortable position and took a sip of his beer. “I see you changed too,” he nudged Sherlock with his knee.

“Seeing as you were so offended by the smell of trains, I felt it was only polite.”

“Well, if you’re in the mood to be polite, you wouldn’t remove the feathers you’ve strung up in the bathroom, would you?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Sherlock smirked.

John shook his head and glanced at the TV. “God, Sherlock, look at that laptop.”

“It’s only moderately less advanced than yours.”

“Har Har.” A digital display flashed up. “That’s incredibly outdated technology.”

“Is it?”

John sighed. “You can be a real tit when you try.”

“Who says I’m trying?”

John grinned at him. “Wait, are these people speed dating?”

“Clearly.”

“I thought you said this was about neurochemistry.”

“It’s… indirectly about neurochemistry.”

“Oh.” He fell silent and continued to eat his dinner, the documentary playing on in the background.

_And people hope that people who look like themselves also share the same values…_

John cleared his throat. “Sherlock, is this a documentary about dating?”

“I…” Sherlock shifted. “It might be about the biochemistry about attraction.”

“Oh.” John’s eyes flit to the remote sitting on the table between them. “So…”

“Like you said, the technology and science are quite outdated…”

“So, we’re watching this…”

“To measure the advancement of technology in the intervening few years. Clearly, John. Do keep up.”

John sighed. “Right. Of course.” It was supposedly an hour-long documentary. And frankly, it was absurd. Half an hour in, John was beginning to find the humor in it. “Do these people not get it?”

“Get what?”

“Attraction. This is hilarious. You can’t… You can’t science your way through attraction. It’s not that simple. They think they can just measure faces match them up, it’s just…”

Sherlock shifted to frown at John. “You think attraction cannot be explained scientifically?”

John’s face scrunched in disbelief. “You think it can?”

“I think I could artificially design a mate for you and you wouldn’t know the difference.”

“No,” John said flatly.

“No, you don’t think I could?”

“Just no.” John crossed his arms and scowled at the TV. “Don’t even think about it.”

“If the right person, looked just right, smelled just right, if she stumbled…”

“Stop.” John stood and headed for the stairs. “Sherlock, just…” He heaved a breath. “Leave me out of this.”

“I…” Sherlock watched him trudge up the stairs, frowning at the retreating figure. “… OH! Oh.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Has your brain melted out of your ears yet?_

_I assure you that both my ears and everything between are intact._

_But it is so incredibly boring_

_Are you familiar with the concept of multitasking? I am quite able to entertain myself while attending to the simple objectives of ART._

_Is that why you’re in charge?_

_In charge? Why would I want that?_

_Then what are you?_

_Indispensable._


	8. Chapter 8

John left the surgery and groaned. Sodding rain. Figures the day he didn’t think to wear his raincoat. He sighed, zipped his wax up to his chin, and turned up the collar against the wind and water. Right. It was a five-minute jog to the tube; he started out into the stormy night.

He’d only made it a block when a dark sedan pulled up to the curb in front of him. Well the day just keeps getting better and better. Then again, the car was dry. He sighed and approached the car as the door popped open. “Mycroft, I’ve had a rubbish day, and I’d really appreciate…” Oh. No Mycroft. “Oh.”

“Dr. Watson.”

“Uh, Anthea,” he gave a nod and settled in the seat. The car pulled quietly back into traffic, and John shifted against the leather in the ensuing silence. “So… Any reason for the lift?”

Anthea didn’t bother to look up from her mobile. “None at all.”

“Ah.” He drummed his fingers against his thighs. “Um… Thanks, then. It’s a good day for it.”

“It is.”

John nodded and turned to watch the rain out the window. When the car pulled up in front of Baker Street, John cleared his throat. “Uh. Ta, then.”

Before he’d closed the door behind him, Anthea called after him. “We arranged a home delivery from Tesco. We trust you won’t need to wander about in the rain any further tonight.”

John hesitated. “I… Really? Thanks, I think?” Anthea nodded. And John well knew he was dismissed as she was back typing on her mobile. He closed the door and dashed up to the flat. He tried to shake as much water as possible free in the front hall before heading up the stairs. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Oh, sorry,” John stopped in the kitchen door and eyed Sherlock where he was sat at his microscope. “Interrupting?”

“Nope.”

“Did… Tesco drop by? Maybe with some food?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes.” He waved a hand absently at the cupboards. “Mrs. Hudson put it away.”

“Right,” he hung up his coat and checked the fridge. “Dinner? Will I make something?”

“Whatever you like.”

“You know, your brother sent a car for me today. Sent food too. Should I be worried?”

“He’s out of the country for a week. Merely exerting his influence from afar.”

“Oh, is that all.” John pulled some chicken and veg out and set about searching the cupboards. “Stir-fry?”

“Yes, that’s all. And fine. And oh, are we talking again?”

John sighed. “We are. Unless there’s something I don’t know about.”

“I see.”

“Sherlock, just…” No, no, buck up, Watson. “Look, Sherlock. I don’t want to talk about someone mocking up a fake date for me. Yeah?”

“Because of…”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“Alright?”

“Yes, John. I understand. I won’t invent women for you to date.”

“Christ, Sherlock, it went so well the last time someone did it!”

Sherlock stared at him.

“Sorry. Sorry… I’m sorry.”

“Well you know the solution don’t you?”

John frowned. “What’s that?”

“Stop dating women.” Sherlock raised a brow. “Also, you should stop doing whatever it is you’re doing to that chicken.”

John shook himself and huffed out a laugh at the very, very small pieces of diced chicken. He felt the flush inch up the back of his neck and tried to shrug it off. “Right. So… Very small bits of stir-fry?”

Sherlock gave him a tentative grin. “I shall endeavor to eat a very small amount.”

John picked up a wooden spoon and waved it at Sherlock. “You’ll eat a normal portion. Go find something on the telly. And not one about the neurochemistry of attraction. Please.”

Sherlock heaved a put-upon sigh and tidied around his microscope. “As you wish.”

“Oh, if that’s on, let’s watch that.”

“What?”

“You…” John shot him a look over his shoulder. “You have no idea you’ve just quoted a very well known film, do you?”

“Did I? How do you know the film isn’t quoting me?”

“Because it first aired in the 80s. TV. Go. Please.”

“Very well.”

John turned back to the food and set about making a proper stir-fry.

_Why can’t I quit you?_

“No, Sherlock!”

“What?”

“Change it! I’m not watching that film with you.”

“You can’t even see it from the kitchen.”

“Yes, but I know exactly what that is. Change it.”

“Fine.”

_I love you. You… you complete me. And I just…_

_Shut up, just shut up…_

“Oh God, Sherlock please find something better to watch!”

“This has that woman back before she had that face.”

“It’s practically over anyway, change it!”

“I don’t know why you’re the one making these decisions. You don’t have to watch until the food is ready anyway.”

“Sherlock, please.”

_You had me at ‘hello.’ You had me at ‘hello.’_

“Dear God, this is actually drivel.”

“Told you!” John put the rice on and went back to stirring the chicken and veg. “Wine?”

“I suppose.”

_We only know that they are, in fact, looking…_

“Do I hear Morgan Freeman?”

“Who’s that?”

“Sherlock, he’s the actor narrating whatever you have on.”

_… Emperor penguins are monogamous, sort of…_

“It’s about penguins. How do you feel about penguins?”

_… The men don’t seem to mind. They just wait for the fight to end and take the opportunity to preen. They’re not that different from us, really…_

“Penguins? Is that _March of the Penguins_?” he uncorked the wine and poured two glasses.

_… They pout. They bellow. They strut. And occasionally, they will engage in some contact sports._

“Well it looks like they have you pinned down fairly well,” John grinned and set one of the glasses on the table in front of Sherlock.

“I rather suspect they were describing you,” Sherlock smirked at him and flicked the channel. “How about this? Is this acceptable? Probably one of those BBC period dramas.”

_I have struggled in vain and I can bear it no longer. These past months have been a torment…_

John nearly choked on his wine. “Really?”

_I came to Rosings with the single object of seeing you… I had to see you. I have fought against my better judgment…_

“Well there’s his first mistake,” Sherlock scoffed. “Why are they always in the rain for these sorts of things?”

_My family’s expectations, the inferiority of your birth by rank and circumstance. All these things I am willing to put aside…_

“Well isn’t that just pleasant,” John muttered grimly.

“Is he being rude? He’s being rude.”

_I don’t understand._

John snorted. “Yes, he is.”

_I love you._

Sherlock’s face scrunched. “Now I don’t understand.”

“Ugh, change it. Just… find something… less heavy, yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“Dinner in five?” John went back to give the chicken a final stir and dish up the rice and food.

“What about this?” Sherlock called before John was back.

“What’s ‘this’?”

“I dunno. There are small people running around with bigger people?”

John returned to the couch with two plates and forks. “What are you on about-Oooh.” He frowned at the TV. “I think this is the third in a trilogy if that’s alright with you.”

“Is it? Should I know it?”

John settled on the couch and started in on his food. “Did you read Tolkien when you were younger?”

“Of course I did.”

“Well,” John waved a hand. “Lord of the Rings.”

“Interesting.”

“You haven’t seen these?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, they’re good.”

“Leave this on?”

“Sure.”

John rather enjoyed watching the film. It was a rewatch for him, but more than the actual film, he enjoyed watching Sherlock watch the film. At one point, he cleared their plates. At another, he refilled their wine glasses. And as the film neared the end, John was feeling full, and warm, and the tiniest bit drowsy. The rain was a steady, dull patter on the windows, but the wind had died down. Only the lamp in the corner was lit in the sitting room. And where he’d propped his feet on the coffee table, Sherlock’s legs were bent up on the sofa, his toes wedged under John’s thigh.

_If ever I were to marry someone, it would have been her. It would have been her…_

John cleared his throat and shifted. The wine was making him soppy.

_I’m glad to be with you, Samwise Gamgee, here at the end of all things…_

He startled as Sherlock broke the near two-hour long silence. “I don’t remember finding the books quite so…” He waved a hand at the screen.

“You going soft on me, Holmes?” John joked, poking one of his feet.

Sherlock hummed. “I think if I were to die...”

“Please don’t finish that sentence.”

Sherlock rolled his head to give John a long look. “I merely think.”

“Please,” John said softly.

After a moment, Sherlock nodded. “Alright.”

And the sitting room fell silent until the end of the film. And even beyond as John finished cleaning up the dinner and rinsing their wine glasses. The next time the speech embargo was broken was as he turned to head up the stairs.

“Goodnight, John.”

He smiled. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Give up yet?_

_I do believe it is against policy to negotiate with quitters._

_Where is that written?_

_Where is anything written? And you will, unfortunately, lose this bet._

_You only have 3 more days. I don’t think you’ll last._

_I often forget that not everyone has my clearance. If one were to read my file, I’m sure they’d understand the degree to which I can withstand torture._

_Terrible misjudgment on my part then?_

_Quite._


	10. Chapter 10

“Lestrade.”

“Detective Inspector.”

“Oh. Uh… Hang on.” He covered the phone with his palm and made a few pointed gestures before wandering out of the room to find a quiet corner. “Sorry. Just…”

“At work?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I… Sorry.”

“You have said that already.”

He huffed out a laugh. “I did. I thought you were out of the country.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

“It’s the only time I’ve heard you described as ‘unavoidably unavailable’”

“I shall have to inform Anthea of her tell.”

“Be nice.”

“I assure you, Detective Inspector, I am always ‘nice.’”

“Are you?” He quickly passed his phone to the other hand. “Is that why you’re returning my call?”

“Incredibly observant, as always.”

Greg grinned.

“Was there a reason you had phoned?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Not… No.” Greg laughed again. “I was just, I don’t know, worried? Or something. Your brother is a bit manic. And John’s as bad. I’ve half a mind to sit them in a cell for a night just to show them.”

“It is, certainly, not worth the paperwork.”

“You sure? Slapping them both with an ASBO might make me feel better.”

“But only for a moment. It is an empty victory.”

“Fine, fine. I just wanted to make sure they weren’t… In the wrong kind of trouble, I guess.”

“A weathered eye. Always.”

“Ah. Good. Ok.”

“I would be willing to discuss this new issue, should you wish. When I return.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. That’d be-“

“Garry! This is _Obviously_ a lover’s quarrel gone wrong. Why do you dither with these horrendous…”

“Oh my God, Sherlock!” Greg hissed. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”

“I can. It’s pointless. Stop flirting and get back to this dull drudgery you call a job!”

“SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock huffed. “Fine. I’ll just go find something else to occupy my time.”

“No- Sherl- … fuck.” Greg sighed and scrubbed at his forehead wearily.

“I see he is as benevolently effectual as ever.”

“Can’t you like, ground him or something?”

Mycroft hummed in amusement. “That was never productive when he was a child.”

“You sure I can’t give him an ASBO? John’s at work. He might have to stay a few hours.”

“I would rather you didn’t.”

“Fine. Fine. You’re right.”

“I would also rather you did not handcuff him naked to the gates of Scotland Yard.”

Greg snorted. “You’d rather I didn’t, huh?”

“Unfortunately, I really…”

“Yeah. Work. Me too. Thanks for ringing back.”

“My pleasure.”

Greg smiled, hung up the phone, and headed back into the room. “Who the bloody hell let that menace into my crime scene?”


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock dashed up the stairs into the sitting room, a flurry of activity and excitement and rambling from the moment he hit the stairs. “… Which is fascinating, given that the EU committee on… John?”

“Hm?”

“Were you listening to a word I’ve said?”

John grunted.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he grumbled.

Sherlock raised a brow. “A horrible impression of your sister?”

John snorted. “Funny.”

He hesitated, warily hanging his scarf and coat before returning to periphery of John’s vision. “I don’t mean to question your social acumen, but I was under the impression that drinking alone is frowned upon.”

“Then grab a glass and join me,” John plastered a horribly fake smile on his face.

Sherlock eyed him for a moment before fetching a glass and settling tentatively on the sofa. “What are we drinking to?” He picked up the rather generous glass.

“Tim Reid.” John tipped his glass off of Sherlock’s and knocked back the whiskey.

Sherlock took a sip, but didn’t swig the drink. “What’s a Tim Reid?”

“Tim Reid,” John said slowly, refilling his own glass. “Is a fifty year old father of three.” Then he snorted. “No. Nope. There I’ve already gotten that wrong.” He pressed his palms to his face.

“A… patient?” Sherlock offered.

“Yeah. Is. Was… Was…”

“Ah.”

He hung his head with a sigh. “What am I even doing?”

“Having a bad day?”

John huffed. “This is not what I’m supposed to do with bad days.”

“Really? What are you supposed to do with them?”

“I don’t know. I… Probably not this.”

Sherlock nodded slowly and plucked the glasses from the table. “Tea? I suppose you’re probably supposed to drink tea.”

John laughed.

“And… Eat? Something?”

“I’d ask you where you learned that, but I have my suspicions.”

“I’ll leave you to your deductions then, Doctor.” Sherlock carried the glasses and bottle into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. He took his time making the tea, and returned to sitting room to find a very subdued flatmate. “Tea?”

“It doesn’t have an eyeball in it?”

He quirked a smile. “No. And you ought to eat something.”

“I know.”

“Tea is not one of the major food groups.”

John snorted and wiped a hand across his face. “I know, I know.”

“Good.” Sherlock sat back and took a sip of his tea. “Maybe some of that stir-fry. I could reheat it.”

John groaned. “No. I should earn my keep. I’m just…”

“I’m quite sure I’m capable of operating the microwave,” Sherlock said haughtily.

“I know you’re capable. It’s what I’ve seen you do with that capability that scares me.”

“I promise I will only microwave the leftovers for the purpose of human consumption.”

“Well that’s frightening.”

“It is a limited offer.” Sherlock smiled. “Drink your tea.”

Ten minutes later, they were sat side-by-side on the sofa with food and tea. “Will we…” John gestured at the TV.

“If you’d like.”

He picked up the remote and stared at it for a moment. “This is too much responsibility. Find something funny.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Something funny?”

“I just… I don’t want to think about stuff, yeah?”

“I… Alright.” He clicked on the TV and picked a station at random.

_Look, there’s no other way to say this, but I didn’t come in here to be insulted._

_Well I didn’t ask for the job of insulting you. In another life, we could have been brothers. Running a small, quirky tavern in Sicily. Maybe we would have married the local twins instead of wasting each other’s time here in this dump. But it was not to be. So hop it._

John snorted. “He sounds like you.”

“Dear God, I hope you don’t think I look like that.”

“Now that you mention it…”

“Ugh.” Sherlock changed the channel.

_Ok. One last time. These are small… but the ones out there are far away. Small… far away… Ah forget it!_

“I didn’t realise there was a version of Lestrade as a priest,” Sherlock muttered.

“Ha! Sherlock, it’s Father Ted.”

“The young one is called Ted?”

“No, no. The… Oh God. You think Lestrade is like Dougal.”

“Well the older one has to explain it so a small child would understand, so I can only assume…”

John snickered. “You as a priest… I can’t! Sherlock, no.”

“Fine.”

_Look, Lana, I like your spunk._

_Phrasing._

_SHUT UP!_

John giggled.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s…” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Uh… Look, it’s a double entendre.”

“A wh-Oh!” Sherlock bit back a smile.

“Maybe not American spy animations, hm?”

“We could just throw it out the window like the last one.”

John grinned. “Mrs. Hudson barely forgave you for her bins.”

“But the point is: She did.” He flicked the channel again.

John started as a series of explosions took over the screen, a midnight carpet-bombing of any hillside with people watching from afar.

_Nothing quite as pretty as napalm at night…_

“No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock murmured flicking past the film as quick as he could.

_… that you’d have to be reassembled by fucking air crash investigators._

_No._

“Well he seems quite sweary and fun,” Sherlock offered, getting a flicker of a wan smile from John.

_Do not fucking interrupt me, son, ever. Now get this into the noggin, right? You breathe a word of this to anyone…_

“I think, John, if you did a Scottish accent, you could go toe-to-toe with this man.”

_… You mincing fucking cunt…_

John snorted. “I’ve never said that.”

_… And I will tear your fucking skin off. I will wear it to your mother’s birthday party. And I will rub your nuts up and down her leg…_

“Oh dear.”

_… Whilst whistling Bohemian fucking Rhapsody, right?_

John chuckled at the slight horror on Sherlock’s face. “I’ve definitely never said that.”

“I should hope not.”

_Now, get out of my fucking sight!_

“There is actually someone angrier than you are,” Sherlock huffed.

“Git.”

_He’s not my boyfriend._

“What’s this one then?”

_It might be a bit warm, the cooler’s off._

“Oh, uh… Zombie movie? Cornetto.”

“What’s a cornetto?”

_Thanks, babe._

“Did he just wink at him?”

John huffed out a laugh and slumped down into the corner of the couch. “Just watch the movie, it’s funny.” By the time _Don’t Stop Me Now_ had reached full swing, John was giggling.

“I think you might be a bit drunk,” Sherlock said frankly.

“Might be.” He choked on a laugh as one of the billiard cues broke.

Sherlock cracked a smile. “You find the strangest things amusing.”

John burst out laughing again. “I find you amusing.”

“My aim in life.” He kicked his legs out and stretched his arms along the back of the couch.

It wasn’t far to the end of the movie, and the station quickly transitioned to nightly news. And not long after, Sherlock felt a warm weight against his shoulder. He turned to find his nose nearly buried in short grey-blond hair. Oh. With a bit more of a stretch, he could crane his neck just far enough to see that John’s eyes were closed. His breathing slow enough and even enough to be asleep. Sherlock reduced the volume on the news. There was no way sleeping on the couch would be comfortable. And John’s shoulder and his back certainly wouldn’t thank them for it. But he could sit there, just a little bit longer, and pretend to be interested in the news.


	12. Chapter 12

_My dear, I am concerned._

_Oh?_

_Detective Inspector Lestrade has expressed concerns._

_I have appeased his superfluous worries._

_He is aware I am out of the country._

_I imagine that causes him distress. Shall I deny it in the future, Sir?_

_He need not be made aware._

_Noted._

_And the situation with archive, has that been ameliorated?_

_I have made arrangements._

_I have every confidence._

_Enjoy the remainder of your trip, Sir._


	13. Chapter 13

Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. “Let me get this straight. You,” he waved absently at Sherlock. “Saw a suspect, known to be armed, running off and decided to chase them, yeah?”

“They were getting away, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said innocently.

He dropped his hand from his face and glared. “No. Shut it. We had planned for that.”

“Well, it wasn’t a very good plan, as far as I can tell.”

“Shut up, Sherlock!”

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and pouted.

“And you,” Greg pointed a finger at John. John blinked at the finger, then at Greg. “You decide not to be out crazied and chased them down!”

John shot a smile at Sherlock and nodded. “Technically, I cut him off.”

“I will technically throw you both in jail!”

Greg’s phone chimed and snarled in frustration, tugging it out of his coat pocket.

_Remember, Detective Inspector. It is all in hand. –A_

Greg growled at the phone. “Bollocks!”

John’s eyebrows went up. “Alright?”

“No. NO! It’s not ‘alright,’ John! Because I need to explain in the report how the suspect ended up winded with a black eye!”

John shook out his left hand and shrugged up his shoulder.

_I believe you promised not to give them ASBOs. –A_

Greg frowned at his phone and glanced around, trying to find the nearest CCTV camera. And when he did, he made a rude gesture.

“In John’s defense, I had been stabbed.” Sherlock held out his forearm, the blood still slowly staining his shirt and jacket.

“In his… Sherlock,” Greg sighed and shook his head. “You know what? Just fuck off.”

John made an inquisitive noise and Sherlock shook his head in confusion.

“No, really. Please. Fuck off before I make an angry decision that we’ll all regret. And if you aren’t in by ten in the morning, I will make good on at least three of the last seven threats I’ve made against your persons.”

“Ah, brilliant.” Sherlock spun on his heel and headed off for the main road.

John’s face creased. “You alright, mate?”

“No.” Lestrade waved him away. “Off. Fuck. Now.”

“John!” Sherlock called. “Come along!”

“Go,” Greg insisted.

“You sure?”

“John! I am still bleeding!”

John huffed and cuffed Greg’s arm as he passed. “I’ll drag him in tomorrow.”

“Ta.”

Greg watched disappear in a cab and punched the keys of his phone with slightly more force than necessary.

_Happy?_

_Ecstatic –A_

He gave a two-finger salute to the camera and headed back towards the cluster of cops.


	14. Chapter 14

“Anthea.”

“Sir?”

“This… report is rather… concerning.”

“Concerning?”

He raised a brow and tilted his head. “Incredibly.”

“Is it incomplete? I was quite thorough.”

“Incomplete, no. Perhaps unnecessarily detailed.”

Anthea pursed her lips. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard that criticism, Sir. How precisely shall I amend it?”

Mycroft shook his head ever so slightly. “It is likely to be the last time you hear this: I don’t want to know.”

“Sir?”

He flicked his hand dismissively at the report. “Please. I cannot.”

“Of course, Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay today... I was having an existential writing crisis.


	15. Chapter 15

**The Night Before:**

“I still say it was awfully nice of them to speed up the order.”

“They just didn’t want me to bleed on their carpet.”

“Stop. We’re… frequent enough customers that they’ll put in a bit of an effort.”

“Do you know what type of ‘effort’ they put into the customer’s food when they don’t like them, John?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow suggestively.

John snorted. “Please don’t tell me.”

“Suit yourself,” he breezed past him and up the stairs, unwinding his scarf along the way. “I see no difference in your continued life of nescience.”

“Have you never heard the phrase ‘ignorance is bliss’?” John followed a half-step behind.

“And knowledge is power,” Sherlock countered. “Honestly, your lack of curiosity astounds me sometimes.”

John bit back a smile as he set the takeaway on the counter. “Curiosity killed the cat.” He shrugged out of his coat and draped it on the nearest chair.

Sherlock poked his head into the kitchen with a wicked grin on his face. “And satisfaction brought it back.” He winked, and John had to laugh.

“You’re a menace.”

“That’s offensive.”

“Would you at least stop bleeding in the sitting room and let me have a look at that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes playfully. “You are concerned with the most amusing trivialities.”

John tutted and pointed towards the loo. “Go on. Sepsis prevention first, food second.”

“Tyrant,” Sherlock muttered. But he made his way into his bedroom first, emerging a moment later through the second door to meet John as he stood with a first aid kit in his hand. “Happy?”

John gave the fresh pajamas a quick once-over. “Ecstatic. Sit.”

Sherlock sighed and flopped, miraculously graceful in spite of the flippancy, onto the closed toilet seat. John’s brow twitched. “Let the healing begin.”

He sighed and squatted, dropping onto his haunches between Sherlock’s legs, then sighed again and shifted onto one knee. “C’mon, give it here.” He waited for Sherlock to offer his arm, took it, and began cleaning the long, thin cut. “Did you know he was armed?”

“Of course he was armed.”

John shot him a look. “So you chased after him knowing he was armed then.”

“Seemed the most effective way to actually _catch_ the man.”

John blew out a breath through his nose and finished cleaning the dried blood. “You have got to stop doing that.”

“Bad for my health, doctor?”

“Bad for mine.” He gave Sherlock a pointed look and carefully stuck down a few steri-strips. “Doesn’t need stitches.”

“Of course not.”

“You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“When you’re done with that gauze, do you plan to ice your knuckles? Or will you leave your own role out of this discussion?”

“He stabbed you. A punch in the face was the least of his worries.”

“How gallant.”

“Fuck off.” He continued to wrap the gauze roll around Sherlock’s arm.

“A bit hypocritical, that. You giving out to me for confronting someone with a knife when you barrel in and tackle the man.”

“I’m not going to have this argument with you.”

“John.”

He sighed and glanced up from his spot on the tiled floor. “What?”

“It was reckless.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“Then don’t do it again.”

John snorted. “I meant what you did.”

“I know.”

John rolled his eyes and pushed up to his feet. “Dinner?”

“Starved.” Sherlock offered a weak smile as he took John’s extended hand. “Who’s cooking?”

John laughed. “You scared the life out of me. You have to dish it up.” He pulled Sherlock to his feet and packed away the supplies. He heard Sherlock leave and took his time tidying and washing his hands, cleaning the abrasions and bruises on his knuckles carefully.

“John, I am vaguely threatening to eat all of your food in a way you know I never will and will watch whatever drivel I find on the television if you don’t hurry up and join me.”

“You’re awfully demanding tonight,” John huffed as he passed through the kitchen.

“Just tonight?” Sherlock raised a brow. “I got you a fork.”

John scrunched his nose as he settled into the couch. “Why a fork?”

“Because chopsticks will be difficult to manage while icing your left hand.” John gasped and shouted at the same time, the resulting noise coming out more like a squeal, as he tugged the bag of frozen peas from the back of his neck. Sherlock chuckled at the glare he received in return, “You make the most fascinating sounds.”

He swatted him with the nearest pillow. “You unrepentant git.”

Sherlock didn’t stop laughing. “Careful, John. I’m injured.”

“You’re daft is what you are.” He swatted him again for good measure. And as much as Sherlock tried to stop laughing, the crooked grin set John off, and they were both giggling on the couch. “This,” John paused to catch a breath. “This is why Lestrade keeps threatening to lock us up!”

“No,” Sherlock affected an air of absolute sincerity. “It’s because we’re better at his job than he is.”

John started laughing again. “Not the modesty?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Really, John. I am the most humble of courteous and tractable individuals.”

John’s laugh devolved into high-pitched giggles.

“And your understated, unobtrusive, demurity is second to none.”

“Stop, Sherlock. God, stop.”

“Too much?” he asked innocently.

John wiped a tear and elbowed Sherlock playfully. “At a stretch, no one would think that of either of us.”

Sherlock hummed. “Their loss.”

“God, you know, I’m actually starved.” He collected his plate and settled back to eat.

“Ice,” Sherlock reminded him, clicking on the TV.

“Yeah, Yeah,” he muttered, trying to balance the plate on his thighs and his hand on a pillow with the peas on top.

_If it’s in Italian, how will I know what they’re saying?_

_I’ll whisper some of the main parts of the story to you. But you’ll be surprised how much you understand._

“What on Earth is this?”

_The music conveys the story more powerfully than any words._

_But don’t they have it in English?_

John’s face scrunched as he ate. “You’ve never seen Pretty Woman before?”

“I’ve seen lots of pretty women.”

“It’s the name of the movie.”

_Vivian, don’t be afraid of what you don’t know. That’s the fun of it._

_Okay. Even if I hate it, I’m glad you brought me._

“Oh no, they’re going to butcher La Boheme.”

John snorted. “That’s what you’re worried about? God, just change it.”

“You like it?”

“No, no. Not really. But it’s why I’d never let you dress me.”

Sherlock raised a brow curiously.

_May I cut in, miss?_

_You’re still my best girl, Cora._

_I don’t know the steps._

“No,” John muttered. “Not this either.”

“Why not? What’s this?”

“He dies, the boat sinks, then she dies of old age and sadness. Not tonight.”

Sherlock hummed and changed it.

_I picked up your shirts this morning. I don’t know why. Mr. Reynolds said to tell you hello…_

“Why is he fuzzy?”

John swallowed the large bite of food he’d managed to fit in his mouth and sighed. “Because he’s supposed to be dead.”

“Dead?”

_I broke down into tears. It’s so hard. I think about you every minute. It’s like you’re still here…_

“Then why is she talking to him?”

“Because…” John gestured weakly. “People… Need to sometimes.”

_Like I can feel you, Sam._

_I am here, Moll. I am._

“And are the dead supposed to talk back?”

“Sometimes… Places hold certain power. They remind you and you forget that someone isn’t in them. When you lose someone you love… There’s routine and you have this moment where you don’t realize they’re gone. And saying things out loud can make you feel less… Crazy.”

Sherlock gave John a long stare. “Are you still…”

“No. No. Definitely not,” he said quickly. “Not in a long time. Not her…”

_*The cat on screen starts hissing and screeching*_

John startled. “Maybe not this one.”

Sherlock nodded. “Alright.” The screen went black and white. “Did you ever… When you thought…”

John glanced ever so briefly at Sherlock then glued his eyes to the TV. “Yeah.” He gave a single nod. “All the time.”

_And the names are Mr. and Mrs. Victor Laszlo._

“Is that why you left Baker Street?”

_But why my name, Richard?”_

John gave a hesitant nod.

_Because you’re getting on that plane._

Sherlock turned back towards the TV. “I did as well.”

_I don’t understand. What about you?_

“When I was… away.” He fiddled with the remote. “Spoke to you.”

_I’m staying here with him ‘til the plane gets safely away._

He set his plate on the table and made an interrogative sound. “Did I have anything good to say?”

_No, Richard, no. What has happened to you? Last night we said…_

“Whatever it was, it did… Bring me comfort.”

_Last night we said a great many things. You said I was to do the thinking for both of us._

John nodded and hesitantly patted Sherlock’s knee. “Yeah. It… Yeah.”

_Well I’ve done a lot of it since then and it all adds up to one thing. You’re getting on that plane with Victor where you belong._

“Put the ice back on your hand.”

The corner of John’s mouth quirked. “Finish your dinner.”

_But, Richard, no, I, I…_

_You’ve got to listen to me. Do you have any idea what you’d have to look forward to if you stayed here?_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re worse than Mycroft.”

“I should very much hope not.”

_Nine chances out of ten we’d both wind up in a concentration camp. Isn’t that true, Louis?_

_I’m afraid Major Strasser would insist._

“Is this a film about Nazis?” Sherlock asked suddenly around a mouth full of food.

John burst out laughing.

_You’re saying this only to make me go._

_I’m saying it because it’s true._

“What?”

“Dear God, you’ve never seen Casablanca?”

“Should I have?”

“Sherlock, it’s Casablanca!”

_Inside of us we both know you belong with Victor. You’re part of his work, the thing that keeps him going._

“Sherlock, it’s not just a film, it’s… it’s iconic!”

“And?” Sherlock raised a brow.

_If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it._

_No._

“I can’t believe you sometimes,” John sighed and stretched his legs out to prop his feet on the table.

_Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life._

_But what about us?_

“How does this still surprise you? I maintain the academic knowledge, and you’re the font of useless social trivia.”

John snorted.

_We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t have, we’d lost it, until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night._

_And I said I would never leave you._

“What exactly is going on here?”

“He’s sending her away for her own protection, and she’s arguing about it.”

_And you never will. But I’ve got a job to do, too. Where I’m going you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do you can’t be any part of._

“Sounds…”

John hummed an inquisitive.

_Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it dosen’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that._

“… Sentimental.”

John chuckled. “Does it now.”

_Now, now. Here’s looking at you, kid._

“Since we clearly aren’t going to watch this one either, what happens?”

John sighed. “She gets on the plane with the other guy and leaves. He kills someone and may or may not escape into the sunset.”

“May or may not?”

“It’s an ambiguous ending.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Dull.” He flicked the channel just as people were boarding the plane.

_Wait!_ A silence narrowly preceded the soft female vocals. _And I-_

John burst out laughing.

“What?”

John kept laughing as she ran off the plane and into a man’s arms.

“What’s so funny?”

John waved a hand at the screen where the two figures were kissing avidly. “This!”

“Why is kissing funny?”

“It’s not. It’s the timing.”

“This song is quite catchy.”

“No,” John giggled. “Don’t start.”

“Fine,” Sherlock muttered. “It looks to be ending shortly anyway.”

“You probably wouldn’t like it anyway,” John smiled.

“I like the music.”

John giggled again, then stopped as the channel changed again.

_There’s nothing to explain. You’re trying to kidnap what I’ve rightfully stolen._

_Perhaps an arrangement can be reached._

“Oh, leave it.”

“Why?” Sherlock glanced over at John to see that he’d relaxed slightly.

“It’s a good one.”

_I can’t compete with you physically. And you’re no match for my brains._

_You’re that smart?_

_Put it this way: have you heard of Plato, Aristotle, Socrates?_

_Yes._

_Morons!_

Sherlock snickered. “I quite like that one. What’s it about?”

John chewed absently at his thumbnail. “Everything really.”

_In that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits._

_For the Princess?_

_To the death?_

“Everything?” Sherlock propped his feet up on the table, mirroring John’s position.

“Well, yeah. I suppose.” John slouched further into the leather of the sofa and crossed his arms comfortably. “Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, and miracles.”

Sherlock hummed speculatively.

_Alright: where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink, and find out who is right and who is dead._

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up. “This is eerily familiar.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched. “A bit, yeah.”

“Where’s the soldier with a gun? Haven’t met that character yet.”

John snorted. “Stop. Just watch the film.”

Sherlock sighed. “The things I subject myself to for your benefit.” He stretched his arms along the back of the couch.

_They were both poisoned. I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder._

Sherlock smirked. “That’s cheating a bit.”

“Isn’t it?”

They sat in a comfortable silence as the film stretched on, the room growing dark around them. John rested his head on the back of the couch, dangerously close to Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock pretended not to notice how closely his fingers dangled to John’s shoulder.

_You can die too, for all I care!_

_As… You… Wish…_

“Oh!” Sherlock nudged his toes against John’s sock. “There they go quoting me. No wonder you like this one.”

“Oi, shut up, you.” He elbowed him gently in the ribs. “Just wait until they get to the fire swamp.”

_Unless I’m wrong, and I am never wrong, they are headed dead into the fire swamp._

“Just how many times have you seen this?”

“Loads. Only one Harry and me agreed on.”

Sherlock glanced back at the screen. “Did she fancy herself Buttercup then?”

John grinned. “She fancied Buttercup, that’s for sure.”

Sherlock chuckled as the kid broke the narrative and gave out about the kissing. “You didn’t mention kissing in your description.”

“I said true love, didn’t I?”

“I suppose. And did you fancy Buttercup?”

John shrugged. “I think I rather had a thing for Inigo Montoya.”

“Who?”

“You’ll see.”

_Rodents of unusual size? I don’t think they exist…_

John started to laugh at the puppetry violence. Sherlock flicked the back of his ear, “There’s nothing amusing about rats the size of dogs.”

“Dogs the size of horses,” John hummed, but stopped laughing.

Sherlock patted the side of his head awkwardly. “Shh. Film.”

“Alright, alright,” John swatted at his hand, listing slightly sideways into the pillow between them. “Knock it off.”

Sherlock set his hand back on the cushion and muttered something about absurd animals. John just smiled and settled back into the stillness of their home.

Long minutes later, Sherlock broke the calm with a frown and hissed, “Absurd.”

John tilted his head up to glance at his face. “What?”

“This.” Sherlock waved an arm.

_Hold it. Hold it, Grandpa. You read that wrong. She doesn’t marry Humperdinck, she marries Westley. I’m just sure of it. After all that Westley did for her, if she does not marry him, it wouldn’t be fair._

“See,” Sherlock pointed. “Even the child knows.”

John shifted slightly more upright. “You have to watch. This is just the middle of the story.”

_Well, who says life is fair? Where is that written? Life isn’t always fair._

“I refuse to watch this if it’s another depressing fictitious reality.”

“Sherlock, just watch, eh?”

_Do you want me to go on with this?_

“Just… Does it at least have a happy ending?”

John gave Sherlock a long look. “Yes.”

_All right, then. No more interruptions._

“Fine.”

John sighed and slouched. “All the sentiment you could possibly want.”

As the movie played on, Sherlock became more and more rapt, his attention nearly entirely on the TV. Nearly, but not all. At one point, he wedged the spare pillow against his side, so John’s doze didn’t topple him into Sherlock’s lap. At another, he pulled his feet up onto the couch, sitting cross-legged. The streetlights were on, the traffic keeping a low hum in the background to remind him where he was, but the movie was fascinating.

_Offer me money._

_Yes._

_Power too, promise me that._

“Good Lord, John, I see why you liked him.”

John hummed and shifted against the pillow.

_All that I have and more._

_Offer me everything I ask for_

_Anything you want._

_I want my father back, you sonvuabitch!_

“You think that bit is good, just wait,” John mumbled, quite possibly only half awake. “To the pain.”

“To the what?”

_To the death._

_No! To the Pain!_

“Oh.” He let his hand drop from the back of the couch onto John’s arm. “Well that’s dramatic.”

John hummed. “Drama queen.”

Sherlock snorted, but his hand didn’t move for the rest of the movie.

_Have you ever considered piracy? You’d make a wonderful Dread Pirate Roberts._

John smiled, his eyes still closed. “Told you it had a happy ending.”

“You are a complete sap, John Watson.”

“Romantic,” he corrected sleepily.

“And your favorite character becomes a pirate?”

John blinked his eyes open slowly. “Seemed like a great option when I was a kid.”

_They rode to freedom. And as dawn arose, Westley and Buttercup knew they were safe. A wave of love swept over them. And as they reached for each other…_

“I thought you wanted to be James Bond.”

“Who said I didn’t. You can want to be more than one thing, Sherlock.” John blushed as he realized he was nearly in Sherlock’s lap. “Sorry.”

“Why?” Sherlock’s hand slid up John’s arm as he pushed upright, but he didn’t remove it from John’s shoulder. He was rumpled and sleep-warm, and the contact was reassuring.

“Think I nearly fell asleep there.”

_What? What?_

“Nearly,” Sherlock murmured, dragging his hand towards himself along the back of John’s neck, coming to rest on the near shoulder. John shivered. “You don’t need to apologise for that.”

“You don’t need me sticking my head in your lap, just because I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock said softly.

John blinked again; his eyes focusing, the haze of sleep quickly pushed back as he really looked at Sherlock. A light dusting of pink flashed across Sherlock’s nose as he broke the eye-contact, glancing down at John’s hand, indenting the pillow next to his hip.

_No, it’s kissing again. You don’t want to hear it._

“You don’t?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“You really don’t?”

Sherlock started as John’s hand relocated to his thigh, giving a gentle squeeze.

“Sherlock?”

_I don’t mind so much._

It was brave. Braver than he felt. But Sherlock slid his hand from its resting place on John’s shoulder to the back of his neck, brushing his fingers through the hair at John’s nape. He’d always wondered about the texture of the short hair there.

John leaned into the touch, his forehead dropping against Sherlock’s shoulder and a soft hum escaping. “Sherlock.” It was a tentative touch. Just fingertips, then a palm, resting against Sherlock’s ribs, over his heart. “Don’t. If you don’t want to.”

“I want to.”

_Okay._

John shuddered and held his breath for a moment. Moving slowly so as not to dislodge the fingers tracing slow patterns along his neck, he pulled back far enough to meet Sherlock’s eyes. From only inches away, they studied each other. John staring as Sherlock’s lower lip was released from between his teeth; Sherlock’s eyes tracking the movement as John’s tongue darted out, the habitual movement both familiar and new. Between breaths there was a nod. And a silent agreement.

It was impossible to know who moved first. John’s hand may have closed around the soft tee-shirt and tugged. Sherlock’s fingers may have splayed along the back of John’s skull and pulled. But when they met in the middle, it was gentle and tentative. A brush of lips, the slight slide of their noses along side each other. The light exchange of long-held breaths.

_Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure._

Sherlock’s moan whispered across John’s lips and it was answered in kind with a breathless groan. There was no clashing of teeth or mashing of noses, no flailing limbs or uncoordinated groping of hands. Just the easy and slow tilt of heads, the gentle pressure of lips, and the cautious glide of one tongue against the other. And the much needed catching of breaths.

_This one left them all behind._

“I have wanted to do that. For a very, very long time.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you sap.”

“Romantic,” he corrected.

The beginning of a smile played at the corners of John’s mouth, his eyes soft around the edges as he gazed up at Sherlock. “What else have you wanted to do?”

“Oh, John. So many, many things.”

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite the end though... 2 more chapters. Chapter 17 will be the last one :)  
> [and apologies for the missing day... I just couldn't get it up in time]


	16. Chapter 16

**_Effective Immediately:_ **

**_the Audit, Report, and Tracking programme has been decommissioned._ **

 

~

 

_So, you win then._

_Did you have any doubt?_

_I really shouldn’t have._

_You do realise I intend to collect._

_But there’s no more ART roster._

_I am aware. And I have a suggestion._

_… ok?_


	17. Chapter 17

Greg sighed. Long day. Long fucking day in the middle of a long week. Long month. Long year. Fucking hell it’d been just a long… something. He sighed and slumped against the inside of his door. And it had to be raining. He rested his head back against the wood hard enough to make a loud thunk and blew a breath out. There was always tomorrow. And more paperwork. And more death. And more long days. Enough.

He groaned and pushed off the door, hanging his drenched coat on the coatrack, tossing his keys into the bowl on the bookshelf, and toeing his shoes off. They were wet too. Lovely. Right. Ok. Beer. News. Dinner. Bed. He’d be dry by the time he went to bed. After collecting a beer from his fridge, he dropped onto his couch and clicked on the TV.

_Today continues the Parliamentary debates. So we go live…_

He raised his beer. Democracy in action. “What even is a Shadow Minister?” After ten minutes of that, he’d heard enough. And muttering about taxes and Brexit, he changed the channel.

_Let’s go for it._

_Right._

_Let the games begin._

“God, it’s like a poor man’s Cameron.”

_Ha. Text from Cameron’s side. They’re making a speech at two-thirty, and I quote, ‘We may find it interesting.’_

_Right, well._

_Yeah, well. Just hold on. I know you said what you had to say out there, but let’s not forget our natural ally is Labour. Hm? We’re a center-left party._

Oh… “It is a poor man’s Cameron.” He hit the info button.

_Yes, I hear that, but, um. Do the numbers work?_

_It’s the only option our members will accept. And you’ve got to get it past them._

_Yes you’re right. We need to make sure we keep everyone on side._

**Coalition:** Coalition imagines what happened in the corridors of Wesminster in the days following the 2010 General Election, telling the story of Nick Clegg’s astonishing rise from rank outsider to the heart of government.

_Text from Danny Alexander…_

More fucking politics. He sighed and flicked the channel again to find Ray Fines in a bowler hat. With an umbrella? The corner of his mouth quirked.

_Well done, Steed._

_My pleasure… But the nuns were a surprise._

_We try._

Oh, right. This movie. Uma Thurman with her accent… Not really in the mood. Maybe he’d just switch it over to SkySports.

_Chester King._

_Mr. King, welcome. I’m sure you’ve adhered to Valentine’s strict no-weapons policy, but if you don’t object._

“The hell?” This… This was SkySports. Where were the sports?

_Of course._

_Thank you. Do you have any luggage?_

He hit the info button.

**Sky Sports Tonight:** 9:00pm, 60min.

Well that was odd.

_Congratulations, Mycroft…_

Greg startled.

_… you just graduated from my pilot to my valet._

_… You cheeky…_

Why was everyone wearing a well-cut three-piece suit?

_Understood? Good. Thank you._

_Eggsy, find a laptop, get me online. The clock is ticking. And remember, try to blend in._

And that kid looked maybe twenty at a push.

_Would sir care for a drink?_

_Martini. Gin, not vodka, obviously. Stirred for ten seconds while glancing at an unopened bottle of vermouth. Thank you._

Actually, come to think of it, he was supposed to call… His phone was in his hand before he realized, and the line was connecting before he'd really thought about what he'd done.

“Detective Inspector?”

“Oh, uh, hey, Mycroft.” Greg ran his free hand the wrong way through his hair. “If you’re answering, does that mean you’re back in the country?”

“Quite.”

“Ah. Good, yeah. Good.”

_Merlin, are you clocking this?_

_Yes, I am. Stay focused._

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, right. I did call you. I just thought… You said we might… Discuss…”

_Lancelot, you’re doing great. Not much further to go._

_Yes, Merlin._

“Of course.”

“Not… Right this second.” Greg winced and pressed his fist to his forehead. “You’re probably busy. I was thinking… If you’re free… Dinner?”

“Dinner?”

_Lancelot, you’re approaching your altitude limit._

“Sure. Food. Discussion… Tomorrow?” He knew the proposition sounded weak.

Mycroft hummed. “It would have to be late. I am in meetings until half eight.”

“Fine,” Greg came back quickly. “That’s fine. Yeah. I’ll be… at the office late anyway, if I’m lucky, and someone isn’t murdered.” He shook his head slowly to himself. Stupid, stupid.

_Those balloons won’t last much longer. Prepare to engage missile._

“I could send a car.”

“Really?”

“Might it be more convenient to take dinner at the club?”

“I… sure?”

_Society’s dead. Long live society._

“Excellent. I look forward to it. I shall send you a text when to expect the car.”

“O-ok. Great. Perfect. Tomorrow.”

“Good night, Gregory.”

Greg stared at the phone in his hand. Dinner… Tomorrow. Oh fuck, what had he done?

_Amen to that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the original prompt is here: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/168742276203/ewebie-atikiosity-commandertabbycat
> 
> pre-relationship john and sherlock watching telly in the evening, lazy and relaxed after a case, and they can’t settle on a tv channel because nothing is interesting enough. the remote rests on the coffee table and whoever gets bored just grabs it and changes the channel, until they find an interesting looking documentary about neurophysiology, so they decide to watch that. and after five minutes it transpires that it’s a documentary about the neurophenomenology of orgasm and pair bonding through sex, and sherlock blushes and john clears his throat around fifteen times, and it’s so damn awkward but neither of them reaches for the remote and they just watch the whole thing, completely unable to look at each other
> 
> In addition to this imagine an evening where they’re watching together and one of them keeps flicking through channels, and literally everything on tv seems to be about sex or romance in some way; they go from the neurophenomenology documentary to Casablanca to a post-watershed heavy petting scene to a scene of someone saying “I waited far too long; I really should have told him at the beginning” to that scene in The Bodyguard when she gets off the plane and they kiss… and the two of them gradually getting more and more uncomfortable and bloody-mindedly avoiding each other’s gaze
> 
> i just decided that it’s mycroft who modifies their tv programmes, and every time they settle in for a quiet evening with takeaway on the sofa and switch the telly on, it’s just an endless loop of casablanca, the bodyguard and orgasms
> 
> (so there you have it)


End file.
